12
HOURS LATER, as Matthew struggled to remember how to sit in a saddle, he found himself wishing for the bustling streets of Toronto, where he could drive his car or catch a streetcar with equal ease. The only saving grace was that Joe’s swayback horse, which appeared older and stiffer than Matthew’s mount, was setting the pace, so at least Matthew didn’t have to worry about holding up the entourage.
Deirdre, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease on her brown and white mare. Matthew focused on keeping an appropriate distance from her horse, ducking low-hanging branches as they plodded through the woods. The weather had turned decidedly colder, making Matthew wish he’d worn a scarf and a heavier coat. At last, they came to a clearing, and when they crested a hill, a log cabin came into view.
“This is it,” Joe called over his shoulder.
They followed him around the side of the cabin to a wooden lean-to, where they dismounted and tied the horses to the posts. Matthew struggled to find his footing with legs that quivered like jelly.
Joe led them to the front of the cabin. “Give me a minute to prepare my father. He doesn’t know you’re coming.” He paused. “I should warn you my pa is kind of cranky. Don’t take it personally.”
When the boy slipped inside the door, Matthew turned to Deirdre. “Does something about Joe seem odd to you?”
Her eyes widened. “I thought the same thing.” She rubbed her hands together and blew on her fingers. “I’m not sure what to expect in there.”
Matthew clenched the handle of his bag, suddenly glad he hadn’t allowed Deirdre to come alone. Heaven only knew what conditions they might find inside.
Joe appeared and waved them forward. “He’s not happy, so please excuse anything he might say.”
They followed Joe inside and found themselves in a kitchen with wooden cabinets, a table, and a woodstove. Joe led them across to the living area where a man lay on a faded sofa near the stone hearth. Immediately, an unpleasant odor hit Matthew. From the man’s unkempt appearance, it became evident he hadn’t partaken of a bath in quite some time.
Joe stood nervously beside the couch. “Pa, this is Dr. Clayborne and Miss O’Leary.”
He glared at them. “I don’t need no doctor.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” Matthew set his bag on the warped floor. “Since we’ve come all this way, I might as well take a look.”
The man shifted, attempting to sit up. “My leg is fine.”
Joe shook his head. “No, it’s not. The wound’s not healing.”
“Unless you’re willing to lose your leg, sir, I suggest you let me examine it.”
The man scowled but finally lifted his foot onto the low, rickety table in front of him. Matthew bent to peel back the material, which had been cut to allow him access. The stench made Matthew’s eyes water.
As soon as he lifted the makeshift bandage, Matthew understood why the smell seemed familiar. Gangrene had set into the wound. His stomach churned at the realization that he’d have to do more than just clean and apply salve.
He glanced at Deirdre. She gave a nod to indicate she understood the severity of the condition.
Matthew turned back to the patient. “I’m afraid there’s evidence of gangrene in this wound. It would be in your best interest to go to the nearest hospital so they can treat you properly.” And relieve Matthew of the duty.
“Gangrene.” A flicker of fear passed over the man’s scruffy face. “That’s bad.”
“Yes, it is. If you don’t take care of this, you’ll likely lose your leg from the knee down.” Matthew would not sugarcoat the issue for the man. He needed to know what was at stake.
“I ain’t going to no hospital. Can’t you do something?”
“I don’t have the necessary—”
“Either fix me here or leave. I don’t care.”
Joe knelt beside his father. “Pa, please.” Tears stood out in the boy’s eyes.
Matthew’s gut clenched at the boy’s apparent fear. Was Joe alone in the world except for this man? Was that why he was working at Irish Meadows? To support his ailing father?
“No hospital. That’s final.”
Once again Matthew faced a situation where his actions could affect a man’s life. Did he have the right to force him into a facility for proper treatment? Matthew scanned the crude living quarters, which likely didn’t even include a lavatory. Out in the middle of nowhere, what chance did this man have? Yet how could they get him to leave if he didn’t want to?
Matthew exhaled, willing his anxiety to lessen. He’d have to do his best with what he had. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Clayton, if I treat you here, I will have to excavate the wound in order to eradicate the infection before it spreads. But I warn you, it won’t be pleasant.”
The man’s hard gaze pinned him. “Do it.”
Matthew nodded. He opened his bag and took out a clean towel and his instruments. “Do you have any alcohol in the house?”
A sharp intake of breath sounded. Matthew looked up to see Joe’s pinched expression.
“No alcohol.”
Clayton seemed to perk up. “Come on, Joe,” he wheedled. “I could use a little whiskey to help with the pain.”
The man was practically begging. Perhaps he had issues with alcohol.
“It’s not to drink,” Matthew put in calmly. “It’s to sterilize the wound.”
Clayton’s face fell. “A swallow or two wouldn’t hurt.”
“Yes, it would.” Joe remained adamant. “In any case, we have nothing in the house.”
Deirdre came forward. “I have some rubbing compound that may serve.” She set her own small bag on the table.
“That will do. Thank you, Nurse.”
Clayton squinted at her. “You’re a nurse? I thought you were one of them rich O’Learys.”
Deirdre straightened. “I am both, sir.” She turned to Matthew. “Shall I get water to wash the area first?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“I’ll help.” Joe hurried to the kitchen area, where he grabbed a basin from the rough shelf. “The pump’s outside.”
Deirdre shot Matthew a concerned glance, then followed Joe out the door.
Clayton grabbed Matthew’s arm, his bony fingers pinching. “Doc, you gotta get me some whiskey. I need it, for medicinal purposes like you said. And my . . . boy’s got a thing about alcohol.”
Matthew studied the desperation on the man’s features. His suspicions appeared correct. “I’m afraid I can’t do that. Once you’re back on your feet, what you do is your own concern.”
The door opened, saving further debate. Deirdre brought over the basin of water and a cloth and set about cleaning the wound. Despite her pallor, she worked without complaint.
Matthew moved to the hearth, glad to find a small flame glowing, and sterilized his scalpel.
“You might want something to bite down on.” He flicked a glance to Deirdre. Her face was pale, but Joe’s was worse. “If anyone is going to faint, I’d appreciate it if they would leave now.”
“Just get it over with, Doc.” The man gripped the arm of the sofa and closed his eyes.
“Here goes.” Matthew paused for a second to inhale and make sure his hand was steady. If he were inclined to pray, now would be the time. Relying on his training, he steadied his hand and made the first cut. As quickly as possible, he removed the affected areas, thankful to note the gangrene hadn’t spread through to the bone.
Sweat poured from Clayton’s brow, dripping down the sides of his face.
Matthew was vaguely aware of Joe rushing from the room but couldn’t concern himself with the boy. Without flinching, Deirdre held the man’s leg steady, and despite the groans of protest, Clayton held up well.
Matthew had saved the worst cut for last, knowing it would be painful, going so near the bone. “Hold on. Almost done.”
Clayton’s scream of agony jarred everyone.
“Cleanse the area please, Nurse O’Leary.”
She obeyed quickly. Then Matthew applied a healthy dose of salve and proceeded to bandage the entire shin.
Deirdre used a wet cloth to mop the man’s face.
“Your ankle is swollen and has residual bruising,” Matthew observed. “Did you injure it at the same time?”
Clayton opened one eye. “I had a bad fall a couple of weeks ago. Sprained my foot and got this gash.”
“Why didn’t you seek medical help?”
“Don’t put much stock in doctors ever since one let my wife die. Figured Joe could take care of me.”
One let my wife die. Just as Matthew had let Priscilla die. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and forged on.
When he finished, Deirdre rose, collecting the waste and the basin. “I’ll clean this up and be back in a minute.”
Once she left, Matthew snipped the gauze and pulled the pant leg back in place. “Clayton, I suggest you take a sponge bath and get some fresh clothes. It’s essential to keep everything around you clean to avoid further infection.”
Clayton slumped back against the sofa. “Gotcha, Doc. Do you think you can save my leg?”
Matthew exhaled softly. “I’ve done the best I can under the circumstances, but I can’t make any guarantees.” He repacked his bag, snapped it shut, and then rose. “I’ll come back in a couple of days to check on you.”
“Thanks, Doc. I appreciate it.”
Deirdre dumped the contents of the basin into the grass and pumped in fresh water. Using one of the clean rags, she washed out the bowl. As she worked, she took a minute to let her system settle and attempted to discover what was niggling at her. Something about Joe’s mannerisms—his voice, his nervousness—bothered her.
And this place. A remote cabin with only Joe and his ailing father.
Deirdre scanned the trees and the land surrounding them. If she didn’t know better, she’d say this was part of the Sullivan property. This cabin might belong to one of the workers on their farm. Was Clayton Miller working for Mr. Sullivan?
When she finished drying the basin, she rose and walked past the lean-to. A retching sound drew her attention. Joe was bent over in the grass, one hand holding the ever-present hat to his head.
Poor kid must have a weak stomach. He should have left the room when Matthew gave him the chance.
“Are you all right, Joe?”
The boy’s head jerked up. “I—I’m fine. Just queasy.”
Why was he always so nervous? An unwelcome suspicion arose. Did Mr. Miller abuse the boy? Was that why he seemed so skittish?
A breeze blew strands of Deirdre’s hair about her face as she approached the still-kneeling boy. “Don’t feel bad. That was an unpleasant procedure, even for me.” Deirdre handed him a handkerchief from her pocket.
He wiped his face and the back of his neck.
“Why don’t you take off your hat? Pouring water over your head might help the nausea pass more quickly.”
Joe shot to his feet. “I’m fine.” He looked like a spooked horse ready to bolt.
Deirdre took a step forward. “Joe, is it only you and your father living here?”
He swiped a sleeve across his face. “And my older brother.”
Deirdre began to piece the puzzle together. “Does your brother work for Mr. Sullivan?”
Again the wariness crept across Joe’s features. “Yes.”
“What does your father do?”
One of the horses let out a loud neigh in the lean-to.
“Pa was supposed to work on the farm, but he got injured.” Joe set off toward the cabin, forcing Deirdre to follow.
As they rounded the corner, a strange man came charging into view, carrying a rifle. The minute he spied Deirdre, he skidded to a sudden halt. His gaze ricocheted from Deirdre to Joe and back again.
“What’s going on here, Joe?”
From the way Joe’s expression turned to guilty surprise, Deirdre braced herself for yet another twist in the mystery surrounding the Miller family.